Hot and Bothered
by camlann
Summary: Two-shot set in my Prologue 'verse.  Two weeks after Sam's left for Stanford, Dean is struggling to handle the emotional fall-out...Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1: An Emotional Hotbox

A/N: So I was in the mood to write another one-shot (this one's a two-shot), and my LJ friends totally started sending me lovely ideas. It's a sick/hurt Dean fic, so I hope you all enjoy. I'd like to dedicate this to bricksandwater, because she's awesome, even though I left her hanging on this for way longer than I intended. BW, you're probably out of the hospital by now, but I guess this fic is better late than never. Hope you like it!

P.S. This fic hasn't really been beta-ed, as I decided I didn't want to wait. So any mistakes are my own.

Chapter 1—An Emotional Hotbox

The sun was high overhead, making the heat of the cemetery unbearable. It felt like he'd been digging for eternity, though a quick glance showed that it hadn't been that long. Still, he'd long since stopped counting the shovels of dirt he was tossing over his shoulder, too bothered by the heat to distract himself with the usual methods. Braden was right there with him, though any sort of rhythm they'd had going was long gone by now.

_Add the fuckin' heat to the list of reasons why we don't do hunts in the daytime._

It was a special situation, of course. The pissed-off spirit in question had taken vicious attacks to a whole new level, and as luck would have it, the cemetery where it's remains were located just happened to be in the middle of nowhere. It was one of those cemeteries that was older than dirt and had essentially been abandoned by all but the nearby town's local punks. They'd thought it was a good idea to party in the cemetery, and some ass-hat had gotten the brilliant idea to perform some hoodoo ritual out of a damn book.

_People are fuckin' stupid. 'Hey, here's a crazy-ass, scary-as-hell ritual—let's try it!' Morons._

And instead of getting a damn clue and staying away, the teens kept returning every night with an even bigger crowd, all stupidly waiting to see evidence of their resident not-so-friendly ghost. Which was how Dean, his father, and the twins found themselves outside in the middle of the July afternoon in Bumfuck, Mississippi.

_I forgot the fuckin' humidity—'s enough to choke on. Add that to the list, too. _

Of course, Aubrey and Braden hardly paid any attention to the heat—hell, South Carolina was about as humid, and they'd lived most of their childhood there. Sure, they were sweating, but nothing like Dean was. Their dad didn't seem all that bothered, either—_of course not—he's John fucking Winchester._ No, it seemed as though Dean was being bothered by the heat the most, and it just plain pissed him off.

_How deep is this guy, anyway? Was the bastard that bad that they had to bury him fuckin' twenty feet under? _

His sweat-soaked shirt was clinging to him, irritating the hell out of him, and with an aggravated sigh, Dean dropped his shovel and peeled the damn shirt off, shoving the end of it under his belt before picking the shovel back up.

"You're gonna sunburn, D," Braden cautioned, using the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Dean settled for flipping his baby brother off rather than answer as he steadily continued to dig.

Above them, he could hear the sound of his father's shotgun going off, the spirit putting up a token resistance to their efforts to send its spectral ass back to wherever the hell it came from. Granted, Dean thought it was a pretty pansy resistance, but then again, it _was_ daylight. The average spirit didn't seem to have quite the same inclination to be a pain in the ass during the daytime as it did after dark. Dean still hadn't come across a good explanation for that…

His head was pounding, and Dean knew it was his own damn fault for drinking so much the night before. He'd known good and well what his father had planned for this morning, but he'd gone ahead and had that last Jäger bomb anyway.

_Fuckin' stupid was what that was. _

Normally, Dean knew well enough to drink water after he'd consumed large amounts of alcohol, not to mention eating some food so that he wasn't drinking on an empty stomach. But things weren't normal, and Dean just hadn't found it in himself to give a damn. Hence the headache pounding away.

_Haven't I sweated it out of my system by now? As if this day isn't already sucktastic enough, I gotta be hung-over on top of it. Maybe if I'd just told Dad to fuck off and stayed at the motel…_

But he wouldn't have, he knew, and not just because his dad would have knocked his teeth down his throat. Because it was like Sam said, Dean was 'the perfect soldier,' never questioning, never thinking for himself…

The words echoed in his mind, and he shook his head angrily, wishing he could just erase every painful word Sam had yelled that day. Deep down, Dean knew Sam hadn't meant what he'd said about him—he'd just been lashing out because he was pissed off. But it still hurt like hell. And Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, Sam _had_ meant what he said.

_Is that really what he thinks of me?_

"Braden!" John yelled suddenly as the shotgun roared again. "I need you up here!" Aubrey was up there with him, Dean knew, but even though she was a good shot, she had nothing on Braden, who seemed born to shoot.

"Sorry, D," Braden told him as he dropped his shovel and hoisted himself out of the grave that was still far shallower than they needed it to be. Unfortunately, Aubrey wasn't to be trusted with a shovel, so Dean wasn't about to holler for her to come and help.

"Hey, D—I'm right above you," Aubrey called down, "so don't throw dirt on me, okay?"

And that was another thing, Dean thought angrily. Aubrey. She'd been sticking to him like glue since Sam had left, and Dean honestly couldn't say whether he was glad or not. On the one hand, she'd seemed to sense how much he needed the company, how much he needed _not_ to be alone. And anyone could see she needed the company, too—Sam's leaving had hurt her almost as much as it had Dean. For someone who desperately feared losing a family member, having one member walk out without a backwards glance was devastating.

_Nevermind that the fucker hasn't even called in two weeks. The least he could do is call her once in a while and let her know he's okay. Call _me_ once in awhile…_

But Sam didn't call, and Dean couldn't bring himself to call Sam, too afraid he'd learn that Sam was blocking his calls. Or just plain ignoring them. It was better not to know, he'd decided. And apparently no one else was too eager to try either, so instead, they all just pretended that it didn't fucking matter.

But it did.

So yeah, Aubrey was clingier than she'd been in years, desperate to hold on to everyone she had left. And instead of attaching herself to Braden or their father, she'd apparently decided to attach to Dean. She'd hardly left his side, and while part of him took comfort in having _someone _in the family need him, it was also hard as hell on him. Because the truth was, having her so close meant he couldn't drop the mask that hid his messy emotions, the mask that he'd hidden his feelings behind since he was four years old.

_Nevermind that it tears me up to watch her cry—that shit only makes everything fuckin' worse._

And it wasn't like he could yell at her to stop, either. She couldn't help it, he figured, at least no more than he could help being pissed off all the time. His head pounded anew, almost as if it was responding to his anger, and he wanted nothing more than to rest his aching head against what he imagined was the cool granite of the headstone above him.

_Of course, that would mean I'd have to actually climb up there…dammit._

Dirt suddenly rained down on him, and he looked up crossly to see Aubrey now crouched down by the open grave, glancing back and forth between him and whatever the hell was happening up above him.

"Dean, did you hear me?" Aubrey asked, raising her voice, as though the reason he hadn't answered was simply because he didn't hear.

He nodded, and from the soft sigh she heaved as she stood, Dean knew she'd been hoping for more of an answer. Because Aubrey was a girl, and like most girls Dean had met, she wanted to _talk._ Dean indulged her on occasion, letting her chatter at him about her feelings and about boys she thought were 'cute,' but lately, he hadn't felt much like talking or listening to _anyone's_ feelings. So he gave her enough of a token response that she couldn't bitch at him for not paying attention and ignored the girly, passive-aggressive shit she was trying to pull.

_Like_ _pulling a bitch-face and sighing is going to make me talk or something_. _Like it's gonna change a damn thing._

It didn't matter to Dean either way as he continued to shovel dirt up.

"Dad, are you sure this thing's buried here?" Dean heard Braden ask above him as he aimed the shovelful of dirt _not _towards Aubrey.

"As sure as I can be," John called back. "If Dean doesn't hit anything in the next couple of feet, we might have to rethink the location!" John told him, even as one of them took another shot.

_You gotta be fuckin' kidding me. You told me to dig the damn hole here, and you're not even sure if it's the right place? What the fuck, Dad?_

This would've never happened if Sam had still been with them, Dean knew. Sam had a knack for research that none of them had been able to match, and something told Dean none of them ever would. It was just one more reason why they were struggling without him.

Ruthlessly shoving away the ache in his heart, Dean jammed the shovel into the ground with a vengeance, anger once again welling up with an ease that was more than familiar these days. It was easier to indulge the anger than the hurt, so indulge it he did. He stayed angry more often than not, it seemed. Not that anyone other than him was likely to know it—he hadn't exactly said much about it.

'_Course, I haven't said much of _anything_ lately. _

Because the truth was, talking wasn't something he could handle at the moment. Oh sure, he'd opened his mouth to try a couple of times, but he just couldn't seem to make the words come. It hadn't been this bad since the time he'd stopped talking when he was seventeen and the twins had joined the family. It was worse than that time, though, because back then, he'd had Sam to help him get over it. He'd had Sam to figure out what he wanted to say and convey it. But he didn't have Sam now.

It had been two weeks since Sam had walked out the door, since he'd turned his back on them. It had been two weeks since his father had shouted those words that Dean could still hear echoing in his mind: _"If you walk out that door, don't you come back. If you go, you stay gone."_

_Why'd you fuckin' leave, Sammy? We coulda worked something out, dammit—you didn't even give us a fuckin' chance! You didn't give _me_ a fuckin' chance._

And after a lifetime spent looking after his little brother, Dean felt like he was drifting aimlessly on a sea of 'what the fuck do I do now?'

What made it even worse was that Dean was nowhere close to figuring out how he felt about the whole mess. Was he angry? If so, who was he angry at? His brother for leaving? His father for making it impossible for Sammy to come back? Or was he angry at himself for not saying a damn word?

If anger wasn't the issue, was it hurt? Hurt that his brother had left him, that his father had let him down by forcing Sam to stay away? The feelings of betrayal mingled in there as well, making the messy feelings into an emotional sludge that Dean didn't have a chance of working through. At least, not anytime soon.

"Dean," Braden called out suddenly, "Dad says to switch out with Aubrey—he says you've been down there awhile—come on!"

More than anything, Dean just wanted to escape it all. He wanted to be numb. And barring alcohol, his method of choice, the feel of the shovel in his hands allowed him to do just that, allowed him to be numb, to exist merely to plunge the shovel in and out of the dirt.

So he shook his brother off, ignoring the command as he continued to dig. He knew well enough that his father, in favor of them finishing faster, likely wouldn't argue, and at least the grave was a little cooler than the humid, hot air on the surface level.

Shifting, he staggered suddenly, almost dropping to his knees, and he cursed under his breath. The world spun lazily around him for a second, and he let the shovel fall from his hands as he braced himself against the sides of the grave.

_Whoa. Okay, yeah, maybe it _is_ time for a break._

"_Dude, and you call me a girl," _he heard Sam say suddenly.

"Shut up, bitch," he muttered back, forcing back the wave of nausea that was making him want to gag.

"D' you say somethin'?" Aubrey asked, and Dean jerked, startled by the loudness of her voice. He looked up to see her staring down at him in confusion.

There was no trace of Sam.

"Where'd Sammy go?" he asked her, flinching at the shotguns roaring above even as he reached for the shovel once more.

"Um…he's not here, Dean," she replied slowly, looking down at him strangely.

"'s he up there getting his ass shot at?" he demanded, angrily jamming his shovel down into the dirt, failing to notice that he'd struck something definitely not-dirt as he stared back at her sternly.

"Dean, are you okay?" she asked him, the odd look still on her face as she gazed back at him.

"'m fine—answer the damn question: is Sam up there gettin' hurt while I'm down here sweating my ass off in the fuckin' dirt?"

Actually, he'd stopped sweating some time ago, but the fact didn't really register as he stared up at her, willing her to stop moving so he could focus his gaze on her.

"Sam's not here," she told him carefully, and Dean's temper exploded at the perceived way she was patronizing him.

"Bullshit! I just heard him, Aubrey! Why the hell are you lyin' to me?"

He dropped the shovel and moved to hoist himself up, ignoring the sudden lightheadedness that seemed to hit him again.

"Aubrey!" John yelled across the cemetery. "Quit yapping with Dean and pay attention! Somebody's gonna get hurt!"

"Daddy, somethin's wrong with Dean—he ain't actin' right!" Dean heard her call back distantly as he clumsily grabbed at the ground above him, trying to find purchase to haul himself out.

_Like hell 'm not. 'm fine. And 'm gonna find m' brother._

"What's wrong with him?" John was yelling back, but Dean paid no attention as he stepped towards his sister with the intention of taking the shotgun off her hands.

"He's actin' funny—thinks Sam's here!"

"That's 'cause he is," Dean told her belligerently, paying no attention to whatever it was that his father said in response to her. "And 'm gonna find 'im!. I know he's here!"

"When's the last time he took a break?" John shouted, and if Dean had had the clarity of mind to think about it, it would have pissed him off that his father had addressed the question to his sister instead of him. As it was, it only barely registered with him, and Aubrey's response had even less of a reaction.

"I don't think he has," she called back, and Dean nodded vaguely even as his father yelled an incredulous "What?"

_Yeah, that sounds about right. Breaks are for pansies, anyway…what…what was I doin' again? _

"_Dude, get your head out of your ass and pay attention," _he heard Sam say. _"You're in the middle of a hunt and you're spacing out."_

_Oh yeah…Sam. I'm lookin' for Sam._

He dragged himself out of the grave only to find himself airborne as he shot through the air, and he had just enough presence of mind to tuck and roll before he crashed into the ground with a jarring thud.

_Ow. _

"Dean!" Aubrey yelled, and Dean wanted to ask her what the hell she was yelling at him for, but he was more concerned with finding his brother.

"Aubrey, hold the line!" John yelled, his voice sounding to Dean almost as loud as the shotguns. "Braden, drop down in that fucking hole and see how close your brother was to the casket!"

The shotguns seemed to explode unceasingly around him as his head rested against the cool granite of the headstone he'd landed beside. It felt pretty good after the intense heat of the sun, but something nagged at his attention, something important…

_Shit! Sammy!_

Sheer force of will propelled him to his feet, and he weaved drunkenly for a moment before he steadied himself and moved towards his sister.

"Gimme the gun, Aubrey," he ordered, his balance wavering as he held his hand out for the shotgun.

"No way! Not unless Daddy says it's alright," Aubrey replied, her eyes not looking at him as she scanned for anything deemed threatening.

"We're right at it, Dad," Braden yelled then, even as Dean stared back at his sister, struggling to make sense of what she'd just said. "I need the salt!"

_And I need a shotgun. Sammy, where are you?_

He staggered away from the others, his eyes darting left and right as he searched among the tombstones for his brother, unaware of the breath heaving in and out of his lungs.

His stomach rolled, and he suddenly found himself on his knees, throwing up everything his stomach held and more. Gagging, he tried to breathe deeply, but it wasn't happening, and the pain reverberating in his head wasn't helping the situation any.

The shotguns finally fell silent a considerably distance away, and he could only barely hear the familiar sound of flames crackling in an open grave.

"_You okay, Sammy?"_

But Sam didn't answer, and with growing worry, Dean forced himself to his feet, fighting back the wave of dizziness and the black spots pressing in on his vision.

"Where's your brother?" he heard his father ask, and Dean shrugged helplessly.

_I dunno, Dad—but I'll find 'im, I swear._

"I don't know! He was right here!" Aubrey called back.

_No, he wasn't. If Sammy was right there, I'd have found 'im by now. He's trapped here somewhere, I know it._

"Oh, shit!" he heard Braden yell suddenly. "Dad!"

And that was when Dean became aware—in a vague sense of the word—that he was lying on the ground in a heap. Fighting back another wave of nausea, Dean tried to get his arms under him only to feel the familiar grip of his father suddenly ease him back down.

"Hold up, Dean—you're not lookin' so good," his father told him worriedly, pressing a hand to Dean's forehead. "You're runnin' hot, son."

'_m not. Shiverin.'. _

"Le' go o' me," Dean mumbled, trying to shove his father's hands away from his shoulders. "Gotta find Sammy."

"Dean, Sam's not here," John told him firmly. "When's the last time you drank some water?"

"Doesn't—Sammy—"

"Dammit, Dean, Sam's not here! Look at me," he ordered, gripping Dean's chin and turning Dean's head back so that he could look him in the eye. "Have you had any water to drink this morning?"

"Doesn't matter!" Dean shouted, struggling against his father's hold, even as John cursed and tightened his grip. "I gotta find Sammy! He's out there!"

"Shit," Dean heard his father bite out, even as he strained to break free from the older man's hold. "Braden, go start the Impala, and crank the air up—he's not even sweating anymore!"

But Dean ignored his father's words, not interested anymore as he fought to gain his feet. Nothing else mattered but finding Sam.


	2. Chapter 2: Scorching Accusations

A/N: This chapter hasn't been beta'ed either. Sorry, folks. Hope it's okay!

Chapter 2: Scorching Accusations

_Shit, this is bad. _

It fell considerably lower than 'bleeding to death' on the Winchester Scale of Bad Shit, but it was serious, John knew, hospital serious.

He could practically feel the heat pouring off his oldest son, but the fact that Dean was no longer sweating made it worse, because a tour in Vietnam had taught John well that a man who stopped sweating was a man whose body wasn't cooling him down anymore. The body couldn't take that kind of strain for long, and judging from Dean's state-of-mind, he was already well on his way to full-body shutdown.

Knowing Dean was too agitated and out of it to respond to logic or an order to calm down, John didn't even try, hefting Dean over his shoulder with a grunt as he set off as fast as he could towards the car. It only made things worse, though, as Dean began to struggle in earnest, screaming hoarsely for Sam.

In all honesty, it hurt to hear that kind of raw emotion, that kind of pain and blatant need in his son's voice. And knowing that he couldn't do anything to fix it only made it worse.

_Gotta get him cooled down. _

When he finally reached the car, he placed Dean on the backseat, wincing as Dean landed a blow to his chest. He didn't acknowledge it otherwise as he peeled Dean's shirt off, paying no heed to Dean's struggle hollering for one of the twins to haul the ice chest over from where it still sat next to the front right tire.

Hopping out of the driver's seat, Braden hauled the cooler over and John kicked it open, jamming Dean's shirt into the melted ice-water inside.

"Get him further inside if you can, Braden—we're gonna have to move fast," he said, ensuring that the shirt was well drenched as Braden moved to comply. A moment later, he lifted the dripping shirt out and moved back toward Dean, who was currently trying to fight off his brother and failing miserably. Shoving Dean back down into a prone position on the seat, he draped the cold shirt over him, even as he pulled Braden to him.

"Listen to me—I need you to do your best to keep him down. Try to settle him and cool him off, understand?"

"Yessir," Braden told him solemnly, glancing at Dean worriedly before settling in behind his brother, wrapping his arms around Dean and pulling him up so that his back rested against his chest, his voice at once soothing as he tried to calm his brother down.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, trying to buck against Braden's hold. "Sammy!

"Hey, Dean, Sam's okay, I swear. Everything's okay—you just need to relax," Braden said in his quiet, even tone.

Aubrey slid into the front seat a split second before John did, the cooler perched on her lap as she slung her seatbelt on. John didn't bother as he wheeled the monstrous car away from the cemetery, roaring towards the hospital as fast as he could.

Sure, he could take care of a lot of shit on his own, but when it came to heatstroke, he knew better. Too much could go wrong.

_When organ failure is a concern, it's time to hit the ER._

"Where's Sammy, you son of a bitch!" Dean roared, trying once more to cast off Braden's restraining arms as he fought to sit up and confront John, though how he was gonna do that from the backseat was anyone's guess.

"He's not here, Dean," John said, fighting not to yell. "He's at school, has been for two weeks now—he was never here."

_He left us, remember? _

But Dean obviously wasn't buying it, and his eyes locked on to John's in the rearview mirror like a heat-seeking missile, the rage masking the confusion he was no doubt feeling.

"No! You took him from me, I know you did!" Dean yelled from the backseat, and in his peripheral vision, John could see Aubrey looking back at him cautiously, trying to gauge his reaction to Dean's shouted accusation.

"It wasn't Daddy's fault," Aubrey tried to tell Dean, but he obviously wasn't listening to _her,_ either, and Braden was struggling to keep Dean in the seat.

"Dad, his breathin's not right—'s too fast."

Fuck," John muttered, pushing the pedal down, the car bucking under them as she gained speed. By the time they pulled in to the emergency drop-off at the hospital fifteen minutes later, Dean's struggles had ceased as the strain his body was under started to catch up to him. Hurling himself out of the car, John threw open the back door, his alarm increasing ten-fold at the sight of his oldest son laying in a semi-conscious heap across the back seat, his lips an alarming shade as he fought to pull in oxygen. "You two run inside and get some help—now!"

The twins flew out of the car, running inside with Aubrey already screaming as John started to haul Dean out of the backseat, the twenty-two-year-old nothing but deadweight in his arms. He headed for the door of the ER, only to sigh in relief at the sight of a doctor and two nurses pushing a gurney towards them.

"What happened?" the doctor demanded as John laid Dean on the gurney and stepped back to let the doctor move closer.

"'s my son—heatstroke, I think. I didn't realize he was gettin' overheated," John told him with a helpless shrug as the doctor pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and listened intently for a moment. "He didn't say anything, and I thought he was okay, but…"

He trailed off as the doctor frowned, not looking at John as he abruptly straightened.

"Let's move him inside," the doctor ordered, he and the two nurses already moving as a third nurse appeared at John's elbow with a clipboard in her hands.

"Sir, if I could just get some information," she requested, her face a picture of sympathy and apology as he hopelessly watched the others push Dean inside.

And then he was gone, swept away in a flurry of white coats and scrub pants while he stood there like a dumbass next to the car.

"Dammit, I should've known somethin' was wrong," he mumbled, dropping his head with a sigh.

* * *

Sitting in the ER waiting room only made things worse, John reflected, because it only gave him time, time to think about Dean getting heatstroke on his watch and time to think about everything that had come out as a result of it. And the more he thought, the more he began to question himself.

_Is Dean really angry at me for what happened with Sam, or was it just the heat talking? Hell, I know a lot of it was my fault, but...does Dean blame me for what happened? _

It was hard to say—Dean was playing things close to his chest these days, at least more than usual. He didn't always display anything remotely emotional or chick-flick-ish, so it wasn't exactly easy to tell how he felt when things got heavy. So whether the twenty-two year old was feeling hurt or angry, John didn't know, but John hadn't pursued the issue, since Dean had continued to follow orders the way he always did.

_He just followed 'em a little quieter than usual. Or a lot quieter. Dammit, I should've said something, talked to him or something to make sure he was okay._

It hadn't escaped his notice that Dean had gone silent after Sam had left. But since Dean had otherwise acted like usual, John had just assumed that whatever Dean was feeling wasn't aimed at him. At least he'd assumed that until Dean's hallucination-driven accusations had suggested otherwise. Until his heat-induced outburst, Dean had once again fallen into the well of silence that was his fallback when things got too heavy, and John had a feeling that things weren't gonna be any different once Dean had recovered.

_And of course, the one person who's always been able to pull him out of it turned his back on us. On Dean._

It pissed him off, John acknowledged. His oldest son was hurting, and Sam didn't seem to give a damn, hadn't even called his brother to check in or put his mind at ease.

_He has to know that Dean's a wreck without him. How can he not know that Dean's hurting? How can he not call?_

"Daddy, are you okay?"

John blinked, looking up to find Aubrey staring back at him worriedly.

"Yeah, I'm alright."

"You don't look alright," she told him bluntly, eyeing him critically. "You look like crap warmed over."

_No, no hidden meanings or secretive bullshit with this one. It's sort of a fucking relief, honestly. _

"Just wishin' I'd noticed Dean was getting overheated before it came to this."

_Eh, close enough._

"It wasn't your fault," she told him softly, sliding over to lay her head on his shoulder and hug his arm.

_Something tells me _Sam_ wouldn't agree with you,_ John thought bitterly. _He'd say I didn't notice because I was too caught up in my crusade…_

_Would he be right? Did I miss the signs of Dean getting too hot, of him hurting this bad, because I was paying more attention to the hunt than him?_

"We didn't notice either, Daddy."

"But we shouldn't have to," Braden interjected calmly, and John winced inwardly. There'd been no hint of accusation in his voice, just a statement of fact delivered in Braden's usual no-nonsense tone, and there was no way John could deny the truth of his youngest son's words.

"Bray, that's not fair," Aubrey argued, ever her father's staunch defender and ally.

_Even when I don't fucking deserve it._

"D's hasn't exactly been straight with us lately," she continued, "'s not like he's been real talkative the past couple of weeks. Even if D _had_ noticed he was gettin' too hot, he wouldn't have said anything. And if D didn't say anything, how was Daddy supposed to know?"

_I'm his father—I should have known._

"So, see? It wasn't Daddy's fault," Aubrey concluded, and without looking up from the floor, John knew she had the token Winchester expression of stubbornness on her face.

"No, it wasn't _exclusively_ his fault," Braden clarified. "It was obvious D wasn't talkin'—that's on Dean, although one _could_ argue that he's not really responsible for thay, since that's the coping mechanism he developed when he was small. Regardless, it's a well-known fact in our family that he goes quiet sometimes, and we all have to keep a more watchful eye on him. That's where Dad's culpability comes in."

Even as he marveled at the words coming out of his twelve-year-old's mouth, John winced and steeled himself, because he knew damn good and well that Braden was about to let him have it, in his passive-aggressive, blunt-as-hell way. And Braden didn't pull any punches.

"See, Dad _did_ know that Dean hasn't been talkin', so he _should_ have been keeping a closer eye on him. Or to take it a step further—"

_Oh don't take it a step further_, John thought, but Braden continued. _Of course._

"—Dad shouldn't have let D come on this hunt in the first place. Dean's mind clearly wasn't on the hunt from the start, and Dad's the one who always says that you shouldn't hunt when you're not one hundred percent. And you can't deny _that_, since we've only heard him bitching it at Sam for the past, like, five years or something. I think we can equally agree that Dean definitely wasn't a hundred percent when he came on this hunt with us."

"Yeah, well…" Aubrey floundered for a moment, and John knew that any argument she was likely to come up with would just be grasping at straws. "D's old enough that he shouldn't have to wait for Daddy to tell him when to not hunt. He should've known he wasn't okay to hunt."

"That's weak, Aubby," Braden retorted calmly. "Dad raised Dean to hunt and to follow orders. If there's a hunt, then Dean's gonna be there, because that's what Dad trained him to do. That's why he keeps going, even when he's hurt—it's ingrained in him. He's never gonna tell Dad he can't hunt."

_Damn if he's not right,_ John realized painfully.

"It's not fair for you to lay everything on Daddy, Bray. Not everything's his fault like Sam says!"

"I didn't say that," Braden pointed out reasonably. "Some of it's Sam's fault, since D wouldn't have gotten that bad if it hadn't been for Sam leaving. Of course, if Dad hadn't yelled at Sam, then maybe Sam wouldn't have left like he did in the first place. Or at the very least, he wouldn't have made it so that Sam couldn't come back. Then we wouldn't be sitting here in the ER, waiting to hear how bad off Dean is."

_So we've come full circle, then—it's confirmed. It's my fault. _John sighed heavily, dragging his hands down as his face wearily as the two of them continued to talk about him like he wasn't there.

"Nice, Bray," Aubrey said, scowling back at her brother before squeezing John's arm comfortingly, even as Braden shrugged nonchalantly.

"Just tellin' it like it is," he said calmly.

"What, so are _you_ mad at him, then?" Aubrey asked indignantly.

_Nevermind that I'm sitting right here, guys. Don't mind me._

"No, but Dad needs to understand, Aubby. 'Cause Dean'll never say anything."

John couldn't say why it hurt so much—Braden wasn't saying anything that he didn't already know, deep down, but hearing one of his children acknowledge it out loud was…painful.

"Daddy did the best he could—he always does!" Aubrey argued vehemently, her hot anger a contrast to Braden's cool indifference.

"Yeah, Dad tries, I know. But sometimes, it's not enough. Not when D's hurtin' and Sam's not here to fix it."

_He's right—I should've stepped up and done better when I saw that Dean wasn't dealing with this…But what do I do? Hell, I don't know how to fucking _talk _to my own children. Mary, I'm sorry. It shouldn't be this way._

He buried his face in his hands, trying to figure out when things had gone so wrong, how he'd _let_ things go so wrong.

_Damned if I know. And I don't have a clue how to fix it._

"Mr. Anderson?"

The sound of his latest alias had John lifting his head to see a doctor standing in the door leading back to the ER area. John stood, moving toward the doctor, aware of the twins following behind him.

"How's my boy?"

"He was definitely suffering from heatstroke, and he's dehydrated. Now, we've given him a mild sedative to calm him down, and he's resting now. He's still running a fever, but we're pushing fluids, and getting him cooled down, so his temperature is starting to drop now. We did detect a considerable level of alcohol in his system—"

_Ah, shit, Dean. What the hell were you thinking?_

"—which is exacerbating the dehydration," the doctor continued, "so we'd like to keep him overnight to ensure that his kidneys are functioning properly and that there's been no serious damage. It might be overly cautious on my part, but I like to be sure."

"But he's gonna be okay?"

"I don't think you have anything to worry about, Mr. Anderson," the doctor told him kindly. "We're gonna get him settled into a room, and then you can go back and sit with him, if you'd like."

"Yeah, that'd be great."

Dean was asleep when John and the twins finally stepped inside his room.

"Dad, I didn't know D was hung-over when we left for the cemetery," Braden told him as he sat down in one of the chairs in the room. "I'd have told you if I knew."

_You mean if I'd missed it. Since apparently, I don't notice shit about my kids._

"I know you would have," John said instead, dropping heavily into the other chair in the room and shifting to accommodate Aubrey's weight as she perched on his knee.

"Daddy? D's not doin' so good, is he?"

_No. He's not._

"He'll be alright," John murmured, his eyes never leaving his oldest son's still form. Despite the ice packs placed on his body, he still looked considerably flushed and sick.

"I guess we should've noticed he wasn't drinkin' any water," Aubrey mumbled.

"Or that he was drinkin' alcohol instead," Braden interrupted, staring back at Dean with a candid expression.

"Don't be a smart aleck, Bray," Aubrey scolded, giving her twin a dirty look.

"I wasn't," Braden told her calmly. "'s the truth, that's all."

"Alright, you two give it a rest, huh?" John said, his tone more than enough to suggest that the request was more of an order than a request. They fell silent, and without a word, Braden snagged the remote to the TV and turned it on, automatically turning the volume down low.

* * *

Two hours later, the twins had grown bored with daytime television—actually, none of John's children had much patience for daytime television—and John finally sent them downstairs to the cafeteria to grab something to eat.

"Sammy?" Dean mumbled sleepily, and John stood, moving closer as he watched Dean struggle to open his eyes.

"Nah, it's me, son," John told him, smoothing Dean's sweat-soaked hair back from his face. Dean jerked away, staring up at John with an accusing look.

"Where's Sammy?"

_Shit._

"He's not here, Dean," John said softly.

Judging by the glazed look in Dean's eyes, he wasn't firing on all cylinders, and John couldn't tell if he just couldn't remember where Sam was, or if the boy was still under the delusion that John had hidden Sam away.

"Where 's he?"

"He's in California."

"We're not?"

"No. We're in Mississippi, Dean."

"But…he's supposed to be _here_," Dean mumbled, staring up at him with hurt, confused eyes.

"I know."

"Go get 'im…please," Dean said, sounding for all the world like the little boy who would plead for his daddy to buy him an ice cream cone, a little boy that had been gone for a very long time.

"I can't, son. He made his choice. He didn't wanna stay."

Dean stared back at him blearily, obviously trying to process his father's words, and John could tell the moment they registered because Dean seemed to sink into his pillow, his expression on that John could only call devastated.

"Dean—"

"Why won't you go get him?"

_Because I'm a sonofabitch that doesn't know how to apologize to his own son. Because I made my bed and now I have to lie in it._

"He doesn't want to come back, Dean," John said instead, hating himself for laying all of the blame at Sam's feet, but unable to admit otherwise.

_I don't want my son to hate me. Dean's all I've got left of Mary—I can't lose him, too._

Dean look back at him with a look filled with hurt and accusation, and John wasn't too sure that Dean couldn't see right through him. Without a word, Dean heaved a shaky sigh and closed his eyes as John's heart ached.

"Dean…"

_I'm sorry._

But the words stuck in his throat, because John knew well enough that an apology, no matter how sincere, didn't mean shit when your heart was breaking.


End file.
